


The whole world is burning up from the ceiling

by tocourtdisaster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Child Abuse, Gen, Human Experimentation, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-11
Updated: 2012-03-11
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:12:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tocourtdisaster/pseuds/tocourtdisaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Without Mycroft Holmes, there is no Jim Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The whole world is burning up from the ceiling

**Author's Note:**

> This is a post-Hounds AU, born from a theory of [](http://gadgetorious.livejournal.com/profile)[**gadgetorious**](http://gadgetorious.livejournal.com/)'s that was pretty thoroughly jossed by Reichenbach. Still, it was an interesting idea to explore, even if there's no way it could ever fit into canon.
> 
> Title comes from "Birds" by Margot & the Nuclear So and So's

_"There's something to be said for behavioral modification, don't you think, Sherlock?"_

__

_"I haven't the foggiest idea what bearing that has on our current situation."_

_"No? If I'm being quite honest, I can't say I'm surprised. Big brother always has been one to play things close to the vest, hasn't he?"_

_"What does my brother have to do with anything?"_

_"Everything, Sherlock. Absolutely everything."_

 

\------

 

Jamie O'Mara is ten years old when Dad's work takes them to America. Jamie doesn't want to go, doesn't want to leave his friends behind in Dublin, but it's not up for discussion, so he packs his bags with a minimum amount of grumbling and finds himself stepping off a military transport and onto American soil less than a week later.

It's boring, being stuck here all day. He's not allowed to leave the civilian portions of the Air Force base, is hardly allowed to leave their cookie-cutter house for anything other than school. Dad spends all his time at the lab or out in the field doing some sort of clinical trials and Mum's joined some sort of army wives's club and Jamie's too smart for the classes he's forced to attend and he's bored to death, so he decides to make his own entertainment.

Dad isn't supposed to bring his work home with him, but Jamie knows he does, knows he keeps it locked up in the extra bedroom that he's taken to using as a home office. It's easy enough for Jamie to jimmy the lock one day while Mum and Dad are both out and slip inside the forbidden room.

It looks like every other room in the house: boring beige walls, cheap and easy to clean carpet, single ceiling light fixture.There's a desk along one wall and a bookshelf along another, with a white board covered in Dad's indecipherable handwriting set up in front of the only window.

But that's not what catches Jamie's attention; no the furniture is nothing special, even the chemical formulas on the board mean nothing to Jamie. It's what sitting atop the desk that catches his eye. There's a pile of file folders, stamped 'CLASSIFIED' in red ink, and on top of that there's a small silver cylinder not much bigger than a film canister.

He knows he shouldn't touch it, but it's the first interesting thing he's seen in this wretched country and the top unscrews easily enough. The liquid inside is milky-looking and doesn't smell like much of anything, but Jamie's not stupid; he knows it's something important, something he shouldn't be into, something Dad probably shouldn't even have brought home at all, but that's where Jamie and his dad are too much alike. They both like having a puzzle to solve and this liquid is obviously a puzzle, even if Jamie can't figure out exactly what sort of puzzle it might be.

The sound of the front door being unlocked is loud in the silence of the house and Jamie fumbles the top back onto the silver container, spilling just a tiny bit of liquid on the desk. He wipes it off with his bare hand before abandoning the office and making it to his bedroom as his mother calls out, asking where he is.

"In my room," he shouts back, heart pounding at the thought of what Mum might have done if she'd found him in the office. He's been told that he's not allowed in the office and Mum's temper is more likely to flare up when Jamie deliberately disobeys her or Dad; he's got the scars to prove it.

His heart is still pounding when he goes down for dinner an hour later and he can't help his flinch when Mum ruffles his hair before kissing the crown of his head when he passes her on his way to the table.

 

\------

 

_"If you're trying to suggest that Mycroft had anything to do with Project H.O.U.N.D., I'm afraid you're wrong. He was still in school when it was disbanded."_

_"Disbanded? Where on earth would you get an idea like_ that _?"_

 

\------

 

When Dad's work in America is done, they don't move back to Dublin. No, he can't get another army contract for some reason that's never explained to Jamie, but he gets job in a civilian lab outside Brighton, so it's to Brighton they go. Their new house is old and the window in Jamie's tiny bedroom doesn't seal properly, letting in a damp draft at all hours of the day and night.

School takes up most of his time, but it's as boring as it's always been, only this time things are worse than they were in America. There, people had found his accent interesting and everyone wanted to hear him speak. Here in Brighton, it's the exact opposite. It's something to be ridiculed and Jamie doesn't do well with being ridiculed.

If there was ever any doubt that Jamie inherited Mum's temper, it's erased when he's caught three times in the first term alone using his fists to rebuff the taunts that are thrown his way.

Carl is the worst. Carl is tall and his voice has already broken and he isn't spotty like the rest of the boys, so all the girls like him. How is Jamie supposed to compete with a boy like that?

But where Carl is handsome, Jamie is smart, so he does what Dad's been telling him to do ever since they moved to Brighton: he stops using his fists and starts using his head. He sits up night after night, wrapped up in his duvet to keep his body warm while the cool air on his face helps him think.

He breaks into Dad's lab after a week of doing nothing but thinking, hoping he can find something to steal to help him in his plan to get back at Carl. Dad clearly still brings his work home with him even though he and Mum have had screaming rows about it, and Jamie grabs the first thing he sees with the word _toxin_ in its name.

It's not that he necessarily means to kill Carl, but once it's done, Jamie doesn't feel bad about it at all. In fact, he feels on top of the world, giddy almost. He sneaks away with Carl's shoes, just as a reminder of how brilliant he was, how no one even suspects it was anything but a perfectly natural seizure, and he hides them away in the back of his wardrobe.

He's smiling when he walks into school on Monday morning.

 

\------

 

_"Stupid, stupid. Of_ course _such a promising project wouldn't be disbanded simply because dozens of people died. Acceptable collateral damage on a project like that would be much higher."_

_"Bravo, my dear. I knew you'd get there eventually."_

_"But that begs the question: disregarding my brother's involvement in such a project, why bring it up now?"_

 

\------

 

Mum finds the shoes, but it's Dad who figures it out, Dad who always thought it was strange that Jamie wanted to go to the swimming tournament in London, Dad who always thought Jamie's tormentor dying in front of him was too convenient.

"This is my fault," he says, reaching for the phone. Mum's looking between Jamie and Dad like she's never seen either of them before. "I never should have brought it home. I should have let it die back in Liberty. I'm sorry, Jamie. I am so, so sorry."

And Jamie knows what will happen if Dad dials the phone. The police will come and they'll question him and everyone will know just how clever he was, how clever Jamie stopped handsome Carl without anyone realizing, but the whole thing will be tedious and dull. Jamie can't let Dad pick up the phone, can't let Mum get to it either, but there's no way to keep them from calling the police, no way to stop them unless he _stops them_.

He can't do that, though, can he? They're his parents; they've never done anything worse than smack him around a bit when he's misbehaved. But Dad's still reaching for the phone, is still saying, "I'm sorry, Jamie. We'll get this all figured out," and then everything goes straight to hell.

There's a pain behind Jamie's eyes that's been growing for weeks and now it explodes and it hurts so badly that he screams and screams and screams and when he stops, Dad's lying in a pool of blood next to the phone that's been knocked off the hook and Mum's in her own puddle a few feet from the door and everything smells so much like iron that Jamie starts to gag and then he can't stop. He's covered in blood and vomit and snot and he's hyperventilating and about to pass out in the space between his parents' bodies when the police arrive.

The paramedics sit him down in the back of an ambulance and clean away the sick and the blood and wrap a blanket around him and Jamie just lets them. He knows he killed them, even if he can't remember it and why can't he remember? Shouldn't he be able to remember murdering his parents?

And why aren't the police asking him about it? Jamie's seen enough TV shows to know that the police should be asking him about what happened, but none of them have come anywhere near the ambulance. They're all standing around in the drizzling rain, looking like they're waiting for something to happen, but Jamie can't figure out what that might be.

After a while, a man walks up. He's clearly not a copper; he doesn't look all that much older than Jamie, but he's dressed in a three-piece suit and holding a large black umbrella over his head.

"James O'Mara?" he asks, but the way he says it makes Jamie certain that he knows exactly who Jamie is, so Jamie doesn't bother to respond. The man just watches Jamie watch him for a long moment before he says, "My name is Mycroft Holmes, Mister O'Mara. You are to come with me."

"On whose authority?" Jamie finally asks, hugging the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

"Oh, you don't need to know about that, do you?"

And Jamie is intrigued enough and in just enough shock to follow after Mycroft Holmes without another question.

 

\------

 

_"Haven't you figured it out yet? We simply cannot ignore dearest Mycroft's involvement, Sherlock, not at all."_

_"And why is that?"_

_"Because without Mycroft Holmes, there is no Jim Moriarty."_

 

\------

 

Jamie O'Mara dies on a Tuesday afternoon in mid-March less than a week after his parents' murder is ruled a home invasion gone wrong. Jamie O'Mara is just another teenage suicide, albeit one motivated by something other than typical teenage angst. There's a write-up in the paper about the whole tragedy and Jamie's school is left mourning yet another student's death.

James O'Mara is escorted into a government hospital on a Wednesday morning in mid-March a week after Mycroft Holmes escorts him from the site of his second and third murders. James O'Mara is an oxymoron: too unique and too commonplace at the same time. His brain is extraordinary. His bearing and personality are anything but.

Luckily for James O'Mara, there are ways to fix that problem.

James Moriarty is born on a Monday evening at the end of October more than five years after his creation began. He is extraordinary in every way. He is the culmination of over a decade of government research. He is perfect.

Jim Moriarty is also, unfortunately, a complete psychopath.

 

\------

 

_"You're saying that_ Mycroft _created you? Let's pretend for one second that I believe you. Why would he do such a thing?"_

_"Why does anyone do anything? He was under orders, it was interesting, he_ could _. Take your pick."_

 

\------

 

He's pulled in by half a dozen armed operatives after he manages to kill his third handler without ever getting directly involved. It was a nice little piece of work he put together, playing on the wife's jealousy and the mistress's exhibitionist streak, and he's quite proud of it. He does so like to keep his hands clean.

The back hallways are just as empty as they've always been when Jim's been brought in and he has no doubt that it was done because of him. After all, there's no need for the plebeian masses to know about the government's greatest weapon.

He's escorted into the usual interrogation room and shoved down into a chair and he calls out, "Watch out for the suit, boys!" as the door slams shut. He's only alone for a few minutes, not even long enough to get bored, before the door swings open again and he meets Mycroft Holmes's eyes in the mirror opposite the door.

"Well, well, well," Jim says once Mycroft has taken a seat, hands folded atop the small case he's set on the table between them. "To what do I owe this distinct pleasure?"

Jim is expecting Mycroft to bring up the death of his agent, but Mycroft manages to surprise him, which happens rarely enough that Jim always enjoys it. "I have an assignment for you, to be carried out concurrently with your more official mission." He pulls a file from his case and slides it across the table.

"This is personal," Jim says, ignoring the file completely. Mycroft doesn't so much as blink, but to Jim, the non-reaction is just as telling as any reaction could have been. "But it's not a murder, no, you'd be able to arrange a murder without coming to _me_. This is something more complex than the simple ending of a life."

"You will continue your usual brand of guided lawlessness: smuggling, extortion, murder, but you will now also engage the man whose file is before you," Mycroft tells him. "When appropriate, you will make sure your actions are brought to his attention and you will allow him to unravel your current scheme, no matter the personnel or budgetary loss."

Jim reaches out with one hand and flips open the file. _Sherlock Holmes_ , it says and there's photographs and biographical data and Jim _tsk_ s. "Your own brother, Mycroft? Although, I suppose assigning a murderous psychopath to entertain your brother must be better than watching him overdose again."

Mycroft's open palm meeting the table is sudden and loud and echoes a bit in the small room, but Jim's only reaction is to glance up from the file. "Sherlock will not come to any harm, Mister Moriarty, or you can rest assured that you will not live long enough to regret it."

"Sentiment, Mister Holmes? How quaint," Jim mocks, closing Sherlock's file with a flick of his wrist. "How... _ordinary_."

Mycroft doesn't reply, at least verbally. His left eyebrow twitches just the tiniest bit and there's the sound of his shoe scuffing the tiled floor as he tries to keep himself from shifting in his seat. The man has incredible control, Jim will give him that.

"Well, this has been fun," Jim says after a minute of complete silence, "but I must be off. Games to plan, crimes to commit. You know how it is." The door is unlocked when he reaches it, the corridor beyond empty, though Jim would wager almost anything that it wasn't like that a minute ago. "Till next time, Mister Holmes."

 

\------

 

_"So Mycroft created you. You must've gone rogue somehow. Your programming was faulty. Mycroft is too concerned with the state of the nation to let you run loose as you are."_

_"That's where you're wrong, Sherlock. I've always been like this and your dear Mycroft has always known that."_

_"And you want me to believe that he's let you have free reign, even knowing you as you are? Why?"_

_"Don't you know, Sherlock? Your brother is willing to watch the world burn if it keeps you from being bored."_

 

\------

 

And so the game begins.

Jim has never been so entertained as he is by watching Sherlock Holmes running around in circles, chasing his own tail, always a dozen steps behind Jim's plans. Give him a puzzle and watch him dance, indeed.

He grudgingly gives up the secret of his first kill and thirty million quid and the advantage in a face-to-face confrontation with the man himself, all for the continuation of the game. The eventual introduction of the Adler woman is an interesting side quest, but she doesn't play a vital role in Jim's plans and he dumps her as soon as she's no longer useful.

The game continues apace.

He arranges his own arrest and subsequent rising star and sets up all the pieces of Sherlock's life and hands Kitty Riley the lie that will knock them all down. He watches the public eat it up, watches Sherlock scramble to put it all together, watches as he fails.

He sets up the final move of their game, snipers in place for days, accepts Sherlock's invitation to meet, lays it all out for him, waits for Sherlock to finally get it.

And thus the game ends.

 

\-----

 

_"That's not something I'm willing to let happen."_

_"So stop me, then."_

 

\------

 

The sound of the wind as he falls, pushed from six storeys up, is deafening. Jim looks at Sherlock above him, his hands still curled tight in Sherlock's lapels and Sherlock's hands still wrapped around Jim's neck, and he grins and grins and grins.

He doesn't even feel the impact with the ground.

 


End file.
